Читать книгу The Mentor - Steve Jackson - Страница 16

‘Come on, Paul, wake up.’

Aston wished the voice away and rolled over on the sofa with a cold leather squeak. Shivering, he pulled the thin jacket in tight and buried his head under a cushion. A hand grabbed his shoulder and tried to drag him back around. He buried himself deeper into the sofa, resisting the insistent pull, telling himself this wasn’t happening.

‘Don’t you dare turn your back on me, Paul. We need to talk.’

A shiver ran up Aston’s spine. We need to talk. Those four words always spelled trouble. And lately that’s all she seemed to want to do … talk. Laura sure knew how to pick her moments. It was way too early to deal with this.

‘Stop pretending to be asleep. I know you’re awake.’

The hand became a fist that pounded against his arm. The blows weren’t hard and he swiped blindly, swatting as though they were mosquitoes.

‘You’re going to sit up now. And you’re going to talk to me. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.’

‘Leave me alone,’ Aston mumbled into the sofa. ‘Need more sleep.’

Laura stopped hitting and started shaking again, using both hands this time, gripping hard enough for Aston to feel her fingernails digging into his arm ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Let me get my act together, eh? I don’t think that’s too much to ask. What time is it anyway?’

‘Just gone half seven.’

‘And you want to talk now? Jesus, Laura, can’t this wait?’

‘No, it can’t wait, Paul.’

Aston rolled over and lay on his back for a moment, psyching himself up. It was all coming back to him. Slowly. After leaving the laptop with Mole, George suggested they find a late bar. Aston hadn’t needed much persuasion. Making up for lost time, they’d started with doubles then hit the trebles. It was around this point that everything became a bit hazy. Aston opened his eyes and sharp sunlight pierced his brain, making his head spin and his stomach churn. He was still fully dressed: his tie a loose noose around his neck, the tail trailing over his shoulder; shirt and trousers wrinkled and smelling like a wino’s. His jacket was a crumpled mess and nowhere near thick enough to deal with the morning chill. There was a half empty bottle of JD by the side of the sofa. Presumably he’d carried on drinking when he got home, drank until he’d passed out. He sat up and rubbed at his face. Wishing that the demons in his head would stop clattering around, he attempted a smile. ‘Don’t suppose you’d be a sweetheart and get me a coffee and a couple of aspirin?’